


For My Head, For My Heart

by fraud



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraud/pseuds/fraud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five bad habits Ariadne has, and the one that makes up for all of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For My Head, For My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> For my (shoddy) french translations, see end notes!

i. **[Priorities]**

The way Ariadne works through her architecture projects borders on destructive.

“Do you want some stir fry?” Ariadne asks, turning the heat down on the stove before snatching up the knife to continue furiously slicing carrots into tiny bits.

Approaching Ariadne in the kitchen is never Arthur’s favorite hypothetical situation.

Over the top of his manila folder, Arthur fixes her with his best no-nonsense face. “No.”

“You aren’t hungry?” Ariadne sounds scandalized, like she hadn’t forced him to eat half a turkey sandwich, an overstuffed omelet, several varieties of junk food he’d expressly forbidden ever being in the house and, oh yes, the cup of pudding still sitting by his elbow- all within the past two hours. “God, I’m _starving_.”

“No you’re not,” He turns a page, secretly waiting for the pile of carrots on the counter to stop growing. “You’re procrastinating.”

“Arthur!” Her chopping is markedly more vicious. “I am _making_ stir fry!”

“Exactly. When you should be finishing that project.” Arthur makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the entirety of what was once a very clean living room.

“I can’t concentrate on sustainable design if my stomach is trying to swallow my small intestine!” She shouts, shoving the pile of chopped carrots off the cutting board with the flat blade of the knife.

Arguing that this _actually makes no sense_ will get him nowhere.

“I need to be properly fed or that- that,” Ariadne glares and indicates the paper-strewn living room. Arthur is not a fan of the knife swinging around wildly- the small architect has a rather enormous proficiency towards klutziness. “Bullshit won’t stop spewing out of me!”

She slams the knife down and sets about arranging the ingredients first to last in order of use. When Arthur sets his folder down on the table it is barely more than a shifting of air, inaudible over the hiss-pop of the pan waiting on the stove. He slips out of his chair, silent as a shift of darkness in the night, and makes his way into the kitchen.

“Ari.” Arthur is a firm presence behind her, hands on her elbows to keep her from jerking the pan suddenly. She is so small in his arms, and he steers her away from the pan with practiced ease. “You are procrastinating on your assignment and you’re never going to eat all this.”

Ariadne begins to insist, “But you’ll-“

“No.” Arthur stops that argument in its tracks. “I will not help you eat a third dinner, nor will I be hungry later. I guarantee you, I will not fit in my waistcoat tomorrow thanks to your professor.”

He knows she cooks to feel like she can accomplish something when her thoughts simply don’t translate through that brilliant mind of hers onto paper, but Arthur knows this routine. Procrastination cooking until, sometime around 2:30 in the morning, the realization that she hasn’t done anything substantial starts to sink in and that’s when the real mayhem breaks loose- Arthur wants her in bed before the sun comes up.

“No more of this,” Arthur gives her a gentle push toward the living room, fingers lingering on her bare arms for as long as she’ll stay within his reach.

Big brown eyes are turned on him and Arthur feels himself slipping, forgetting the steady crackle-pop of oil on the stove and the uncomfortable heaviness in his stomach and why isn’t he pressing into this beautiful, _recherché_ of a woman wrapped in his arms? Ariadne blinks and Arthur is lost in the feather brush of her eyelashes. When her lips part, bantam and dry, Arthur imagines any number of beautiful words pouring out. It takes him a moment when what actually comes out of her mouth is; “Finish my stir fry for me, please?”

With a great sigh Arthur relegates her to the living room and sets about fixing stir fry neither of them will eat.

“If you’re not finished by four I’m cutting off the electricity to the kitchen.”

 

ii. **[Striptease]**

It isn’t hard to tell when Ariadne is home.

One needs only look around to see the discarded remnants of that day’s outfit. Her bag dropped by the door. A scarf draped over the arm of the sofa. Left shoe, right shoe, cardigan handing off the bedroom door. It’s almost like coming home to a striptease. Except Ariadne strips without a second thought to where her clothes go once she sheds them from her body.

The first time she left a trail of clothes from the door to the bedroom was sexy. The first time she’d absently shed her clothes piece by piece on the way to the shower, leaving a tiny crumpled pair of polka-dotted panties by the bathroom door, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to mind. While the occasional scarf doesn’t bother him, tripping over a pair of her pants in the middle of the night kind of does. Stabbing himself in the foot with a drafting pencil sends him sprawling to the floor with a shouted expletive. Getting bitched out because he moved a wadded up shirt from the kitchen to the dresser (Where. It. _Belongs_.) is also just this side of annoying.

So he trails her when she gets home, pointing out what she’s doing and when they last argued about it. If it’s a good day, she’ll pick up after herself with a flippant smile and an anecdote about her day. If it’s a bad day, Arthur only hounds her from the front door to their bedroom.

Arthur knows she’s young, she’s still in college, and that she has more important things to worry about than where she last left her shoes, but Arthur needs some semblance of order. And as much as Ariadne insists that she has a system, Arthur can’t make the complicated leaps of logic required to understand said system so he occasionally picks up after her.

“Arthur! Shit, _shit_!” Ariadne wails, wiggling into her skinny jeans and looking frantic. “I’m going to be late and I can’t find my lucky cardigan!”

Arthur is distracted by the delicious curve of her ass as it disappears into her pants- but they’ve had this conversation before and he starts on autopilot, “Luck is a-“

“SHUT _UP_. I NEED MY LUCKY CARDIGAN!” Ariadne is nearly in tears, running barefoot into the workroom to see if it has taken to hiding under her drafting board.

Arthur sighs, takes a moment to think about where said cardigan _should_ be, and hoists himself out of his chair. He retrieves the hideous burnt orange cardigan from its place on the back of the bedroom door.

“I’m going to die if I don’t-“ Ariadne’s eyes grow adorably large and Arthur can almost forgive her the cardigan’s color when she looks at him like he’s just solved all her problems. She launches herself at him, squeezing him in a quick hug before snatching her bag off the floor in her haste to thwart her inevitable tardiness.

“Ari?” Arthur asks as she flings open the door.

She’s halfway out the door before she turns around and asks, slightly impatiently, “Yeah?”

“I know you put your trust in the cardigan,” Arthur motions to her feet. “But can I suggest shoes?”

Ariadne looks down at her bare feet, toes wiggling back at her as if excited to be noticed. Her eyes grow impossibly wide and she looks around for her shoes.

“WHERE ARE MY SHOES?!”

Always.

Clothes everywhere.

 

iii. **[Brilliance]**

Arthur is an ass man.

He’s never seen another pair of eyes like Ariadne’s and sometimes he gets caught up in the softness of her hair, but his hands naturally gravitate toward the firm roundness of her butt. It’s what he falls asleep holding and the first thing he gravitates to upon waking.

No one would guess this of Arthur, the prim, proper point man but just a gentle squeeze to her backside at work has him thinking about sex right up until he finally gets her home and wrapped around him, palms pressed to her ass as he presses into her.

To Ariadne, he’s painfully transparent and he loves that she always seems to _know_. She knows that he doesn’t actually mind when she distracts him from his work, wriggling around on the floor of their living room with her ass up in the air, “working” on a design. She knows he likes it when she lets her hair dry naturally, forming long, silky waves that he gets distracted with thoughts of burying his hands in. Most of all, she knows he loves the feel of her straddling him on the couch, her full weight wiggling in his lap while her skirt rides up smooth thighs.

“Ariadne.” Arthur looks up from his files, already at attention but affecting annoyance as best he can. “I’m working.”

She smiles at him and plucks the folder out of his hands, “So what?”

“You should be working as well.” He points out, watching her fingers slowly undo the powder blue button up.

Her top falls to the floor revealing the lacy brassiere Arthur insisted she could and should wear outside of “special occasions.”

“I can’t work,” Ariadne tries to pout but she’s not as adept as Arthur when it comes to masking her intentions- not _these_ , at least. She trails her hands up her stomach, cupping her breasts and fondling the lace there. “I’m too hot.”

Arthur’s hands slip up the back of her thighs, contemplating the seam of her skirt before traveling up the back of her clothed legs to squeeze her ass. “Mmm, you have no idea.”

“You’ll help me right?” She leans into his lips, a breath from actual contact and squirms in his lap. “In the name of concentration?”

With a half clothed Ariadne straddling his hips he could make the argument that he has no clue what that word means anymore, but his lips are currently occupied sucking on her bottom lip and chasing her tongue with his own. Her hands slide into his short hair, pulling him to where she wants him and Arthur coaxes her legs father apart, pulling her down on him. They kiss like they’ve forgotten what the other tastes like; deep and sloppy, as if their mouths are the most complicated puzzle the other’s tongue has ever encountered.

Ariadne rests her mouth against his- she never pulls back- and pants his name just to feel the tingle in her lips. He loves the way she makes his name sound like the most important thing she knows.

“Ariadne,” Arthur breathes against her lips, trailing his mouth over the apple of her cheek just to feel her skin.

She starts nuzzling his face, wriggling on his lap and all he wants to do is reach down and feel her slippery against his fingers, wet and ready for his cock. He wants to bend her over the arm of the couch and fuck her until he cant breathe, press into her again and again until she can taste his come in the back of her mouth. He wants to press his face between her thighs and swallow her down, messy from nose to chin in her dripping juices as he finger fucks her still filled with his come.

Hot breath against his ear lets him know exactly what she wants from him, explicitly, unabashedly, and Arthur is only too happy to comply. He pushes the waistband of her skirt up just below her breasts, trailing fingers back down her belly with torturously slow single-mindedness. One hand returns to the soft swell of her bottom while the other dips between her thighs to tease the ripe heat soaking through her flimsy panties.

“Arthur your fingers- fuck, they’re so long,” Ariadne mewls, pressing her wetness against those wandering digits.

“You like it?” Arthur slips his fingers past the elastic of her panties, barely touching her.

She nods, making a noise in the back of her throat and rubs against his wandering digit, praying he’ll press into her while images of steeples and taught suspension cables swirl dizzyingly in her mind.

“Aria-“ Arthur shudders, easing a finger into her and she’s so tight he cant imagine how she accommodates him every time. “Fucking- _cramouille_ , parfaire…”

Ariadne presses her chest to his, nipples tight from the friction against his chest and the lace of her bra as she gasps against his ear, “Oui. Oh, God- J-je veux lécher ton foutre, Arthur.”

His hand tightens on her ass and it takes all of his willpower not to throw her to the floor and fuck that dirty mouth of hers until she gets just what she wants.

Small and crafty Ariadne slips her hand into his pants, curling around the familiar shaft as she fucks herself on his fingers. “You’re so strong without the bulk. Your fingers and your legs and fuck, even your cock; you fit together so well, its like- its like…“

As far-gone as he is, Arthur doesn’t notice she’s suddenly slowed her rocking against his fingers. When her hand stills on him he is honestly disoriented enough to groan, “Not there Ari, just a little more.”

It takes him about three seconds to remember why letting her take control is a bad thing.

“I’ll be… right back...” She mumbles, slipping off of him with the stroke of architectural genius burning in her eyes.

“No, no, no,” Arthur scrambles to catch her before she leaves him so close that he’s actually leaking against his stomach; his body is still intently focused on the coiling heat between his thighs and she slips away. “ _No!_ ”

“Just one second; I’ve just got to- oh my god, why didn’t I think of that before? Its so obvious!” Ariadne exalts breathlessly, dashing into the workroom they share.

Arthur’s head hits the back of the couch in defeat.

He loves that she’s brilliant; sometimes he just hates to be her inspiration.

 

iv. **[Forgetfulness]**

Thurs. Sep 13 08:41  
Arthur Im really worried

Thurs. Sep 13 08:43  
I think I left the door unlocked

Thurs. Sep 13 08:44  
I really think I left the door unlocked

Thurs. Sep 13 08:48  
Omg what if I left the door unlocked shit sshit shit shti

Thurs. Sep 13 08:50  
I dont remember locking the door!!

Thurs. Sep 13 08:59  
Putain de merde! I cant get out of here until they check my design I HATE MY LAST NAME THIS IS GOING TO TAKE FOREVER!!!!

Thurs. Sep 13 09:01  
Should I just duck out? Fuck I cant take a 0 on this design…

Thurs. Sep 13 09:01  
But that is more important right? Fuck it Im gonna run back and check

Thurs. Sep 13 09:02  
Stop worrying; I’m on my way home now. Don’t you dare leave your class. -A

 

v. **[Identity]**

Never before has Arthur had a problem with a lady wearing his clothes.

The ladies seem to love wrapping up in his suit jacket on a cold night or cuddling into his shirts after sex- always just a touch too long in the arms. Many a tie has been sacrificed for the greater good of gagging, binding, or fondling a particularly imaginative past fling and Arthur learned the value of less expensive, designated ‘sex ties’ very quickly.

During particularly horrible days at work Arthur imagines the way Ariadne’s pert breasts hide in the folds of his rumpled shirts, peaked nipples little more than visible disturbances in the fabric. It makes the day frustrating in entirely different ways, but more enjoyable for the effort.

He has never, however, figured out Ariadne’s complete inhibition to stealing his _underwear_.

Boxer-briefs that fit snugly around his thighs and keep him compact, pressed in place, cling to her hips and barely touch her skinny thighs. Ariadne pulls them on like she honestly can’t tell the difference between the couture lingerie he pulls off of her with his teeth and his day old discarded boxer-briefs.

When he asks _why_ she just shrugs and says, “Underwear are underwear,” which drives Arthur slightly crazy.

 

i. **[Compromise]**

Ariadne is not a morning person.

Ariadne is barely an afternoon person.

She simply doesn’t wake up very well and puts up quite the convincing argument when it comes time to greet the day; Arthur knows because he’s the one wrangling her out of bed every morning.

First she starts with the delays.

“Five more minutes, I swear. Justgimmefivemor-“ Falling asleep before she’s even managed to make any sense.

Then come the promises.

“Come back to bed and we can have wild monkey sex later, I _promise_.”

Then the guilt trips follow.

“If you _really_ cared for me, you’d get back in bed with me.”

And lastly, the bribes.

“Okay I’ll get up,” She rolls over, letting the sheet slip past the curve of her butt. The shirt she wore to bed last night hiked up around her belly revealing a soft, tempting expanse of skin. “If you _really_ want me to, I’ll get up.”

Before Arthur met her, not even Somnacin could keep him asleep past 7am. Now, on his good days, he can manage to sleep until 9 but not a minute later. He can’t help that he’s a morning person and she falls into minor but substantive comas. Most of the time it is really hard to resist Ariadne’s bribes.

Arthur runs his hand through her hair, her scalp warm under his palm from the heat of their bodies under the covers. She sleeps peacefully most of the time and snores just a little bit when she’s had too much to drink. Arthur keeps that knowledge to himself, a pearl of intimacy he likes to think she's unintentionally shared only with him.

“’rthur?” Ariadne mumbles, pressing a kiss to his bare chest from somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. “s’it time t’geddup?”

His thumb traces the shell of her ear before he bends to press a kiss to her forehead, ignoring the clock that tells him it is, without a doubt, well past ‘time to get up.’ “We can sleep in a little longer if you want.”

“Mmkay,” Ariadne nods, a soft smile turning her lips up as she falls back into her safe, normal, organic dreams. She nuzzles against him and Arthur can barely make out a “Love you ‘rthur,” murmured into his skin.

The digital clock display changes from 11:48 to 11:49. Arthur is a morning person but he’ll stay in bed all day long if it means Ariadnes’ small thighs wrapped around his waist and sleepy, _love you Arthur_ ’s whispered against his cheek.

“Love you too Ariadne.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Je veux lécher ton foutre," should translate to: "I want to swallow your cum." But I've been told it may not? And "cramouille" is a vulgar expression to indicate how a woman gets wet. I'm sure you all got the gist without this terrible french lesson...


End file.
